


In the Morning

by erebones



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coming In Pants, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hotel Sex, Love Confessions, M/M, Morning After, Morning Sex, Sharing a Bed, Wet Dream, john and sherlock actually have a conversation, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 08:11:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2421503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for paula bennyslegs: [gets down on my knees] someone please write sherlock and john sharing a bed because of a case… and one of them waking up to the sound of the other having a wet dream please [presses face to the ground] especially if they’re saying the other persons name whilst doing it please [sinks into the ground]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sweet Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like it's always John waking up and Sherlock's rubbing off on him in the middle of the night, so let's switch it up. <3

Sherlock blinked awake to the unfamiliar glow of a cheap alarm clock blinking 2:36 AM and a blaze of humid warmth against his back. Disoriented, he shuffled his feet and tried to discern what had roused him.

He hadn’t really intended to fall asleep at all. They were out in the middle of bloody nowhere for a case, got tangled up with paperwork—local law enforcement were not as lenient as Lestrade, it appeared—and had to stay overnight (again!) in a tiny one-bed room at the arse end of Barnoldswick. The first night hadn’t been so bad; Sherlock was still puzzling over the particulars of the case, and had stayed awake almost all night working on his laptop and pacing the room by turns while John snored peacefully in the bed. He had planned a similar arrangement for their second evening, but—predictably—crashed as soon as they returned to the hotel. Apparently John hadn’t minded, and crawled right in beside him.

The double bed was narrow for two grown men, and John was throwing off heat like a furnace. Sherlock stuck his feet out of the covers even as his shoulders gravitated towards John’s solid warmth. He hadn’t wanted to share a bed at all. He was too afraid of what might happen in sleep: nightmares, shouting, tears. Waking up to John’s anguished guilt and hangdog expressions. Or, worse: a pleasant dream full of skin and soft kisses, and opening his eyes to John’s disgust as he unknowingly betrayed his deep affections. Sherlock’s skin crawled, even now, at the very thought.

His musings were interrupted by the soft huff of sound from the lump beside him. A susurrus of breath, low and drawn out, followed by a quick inhale. Sherlock smiled faintly. It was like listening to a dog dreaming, watching its feet twitch as it chased rabbits in the fields of its subconscious.

“Mm.”

The hum was more distinct this time, broken off at the end like a sentence dropped mid-thought. When Sherlock turned his head, he could make out the tufts of John’s hair sticking out from the duvet, feel the puff of his sleep-sour breath on his own cheek. John shifted in his sleep, and then his mouth was right by Sherlock’s ear, slightly open. Sherlock closed his eyes firmly.

“Oh… mm, yeah,” John rasped, and gooseflesh rippled down Sherlock’s arms even under the oppressive warmth of the bedclothes. Another shift, and Sherlock swore he could feel John’s hand against the mattress near his arse. “Shhh….”

“John,” Sherlock tried to say, but his voice got stuck somewhere behind the roof of his mouth. He squeezed his thighs together and realized, with a flush of shame, that he was half-hard.

John would hate this. He would hate to wake up in bed with Sherlock, having a sex dream, and find Sherlock aroused because of it. That wasn’t them, wasn’t their friendship. Sherlock licked his lips again—God, why were they so dry?—and inched his way toward the edge of the bed.

The extra space only seemed to encourage John. Even in sleep he sought the comfort of another body, and rolled hard up against Sherlock’s side, wet mouth smearing against his neck. He was panting now, little rhythmic huffs that sent pangs of arousal through Sherlock’s thighs.

John’s hand found Sherlock’s arse and squeezed, and _stayed there_. Dug in a little, massaged the fleshy cheek, thumb working into the crease even through pants and pajamas. Sherlock yelped into his pillow. “God,” John breathed, slurred in his sleep, and there was a rhythm now, a slight shiver in the mattress as he frotted against the sheets. “God, shhh.”

Frustrated, irritable, and rock-hard against the mattress, Sherlock snarled in a half-whisper: “ _You_ shhh!”

“Oh,” breathed John, squeezing, pushing himself into Sherlock’s body. “Oh. _Sherlock_.”

The arousal soured in his belly and Sherlock froze. John was awake. He was awake and disgusted and was going to get out of bed and leave forever.

“Shhh, mmmmm. Sherlock. Yeah. _Oh_.”

Sherlock held his breath. John was _still asleep_. John was asleep and _dreaming of him._ He choked a little, pushed his face into the pillow. John’s hand on his arse rubbed, John’s hips twitched and shimmied and found Sherlock’s thigh. John’s erection was hot and hard and far, far bigger than Sherlock had even dared estimate.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John moaned, and Sherlock growled and took himself in hand. God he was hard, harder than he had been in ages. He pulled at himself, hot with shame and arousal, and panted into the pillow. John was rutting frantically against him now; _how_ could he still be sleeping?

“Shhhmm… Sherlock?”

Everything stilled. The room seemed full of heaving breaths, heavy with the scent of sweat and musk. The slightest whisper of John’s tongue against his lower lip.

“Sherlock? Are you…”

“I’m awake,” Sherlock rasped, voice thick with suppressed arousal. “You… you were dreaming. Vividly.”

John seemed to realize he was really copping a feel, and he pulled his hand away. Sherlock couldn’t quite suppress the groan of disappointment.

“Oh.” John touched him again, tentatively: the middle of the back where he was damp with sweat, his hipbone, the path of his wrist disappearing into his pajamas. Sherlock’s hips shifted, and John’s palm found his turgid prick, cupped it firmly. Sherlock made a broken sound and pushed back. “Oh, fuck,” breathed John, straight into his ear. He squeezed. “Fucking hell that’s nice.”

“ _John_.”

“D’you like that, then? I didn’t know… didn’t think…”

Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to answer. His face was half buried in the pillow, mouth open and tongue dry, and oh, God, he was coming in John’s hand, coming into his pants with John’s hand around the whole package, feeling the wet soaking through against his palm. John shuddered and nipped Sherlock’s upper back. Pushed his hand into his own pants and drew himself out, rubbed the head against the small of Sherlock’s back. Where he had been so loud before, now, awake, he was silent, panting harshly but making no other noise as he pushed into Sherlock’s heated skin and spread hot, sticky smears of come into the crack of his arse.

Sherlock was suddenly overcome with drowsiness. Sticky in front and back, he let John pull him into a vaguely spoonlike position and tried to speak. “John…”

“Morning,” John interrupted. “In the morning, ’kay?” His hand found Sherlock’s, squeezed. “It’s fine. I promise.”


	2. Good Morning, I Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I couldn't just leave it at that. Thanks for the encouragement, guys! <3

Sherlock slipped out of bed before John was awake. The room was cold and washed with icy morning light as he tiptoed into the bathroom, shivering as the heat of their bodies under the duvet drained away from him. He didn’t want to turn on the shower on and wake John, so he ran the tap hot instead and scrubbed his skin free of the evidence of last night's... activities. 

The tap turned off, and the mattress creaked in the other room. Sherlock stared at his reflection, washed out by harsh fluorescence that marked out every flaw: eyes red-rimmed, lips dry, skin reflective with oil after a night spent beside another body. _John’s_ body.

 _Stop being ridiculous._ Sherlock straightened his shoulders and swiped at the light switch. The darkness dropped over him like a cloak and the knot inside his belly loosened.

He crept back to bed, crotch and sacrum still a little damp underneath his pajamas. The pants he'd had to discard entirely. He could tell from John’s breathing that he was awake and pretending not to be; following his lead, Sherlock slipped under the covers and curled up a safe distance away, knees close to hanging off the edge of the mattress. It was unbearably quiet. The silence prickled the back of his neck like the sound of a faucet endlessly dripping, or the continuous, wretched scrape of city construction going on at the very edge of hearing.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was quiet and strangely high-pitched for an early morning. 

“Mm.” _Yes, I’m awake. Hello. We had sex last night, do you remember?_

“Time is it?”

“Quarter to seven.” Only a little late for John, but for Sherlock it was a bloody lie-in.

John huffed an endearing sigh like he was expelling all the night’s stale air, and rolled over. Sherlock could feel the aborted heat of his hand over him, hovering at his hip; after a few endless heartbeats, John’s touch came to rest, solid and reassuring in the light of day. “You sleep okay?”

“Fine.”

Sherlock stared at his own thumb, curled against the meat of his palm right before his face. The curve of his nail was suddenly completely absorbing. Why the mundane questions, as if it were any other day? Any other morning, waking up together, side by side like it was normal? It wasn’t normal. Wasn’t a morning that he knew by heart, so familiar after weeks and months and years of waking up this way, no matter how much he had wished for it.

“I hope you weren’t… bothered, last night. It was sort of. Um.”

“Unexpected?” Sherlock offered, feeling as if he’d woken up in an alternate dimension. John was being unusually bold—he rarely ever spoke so frankly about these things with Sherlock, not unless he’d had a drink or three to steady himself first.

John chuckled. “Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.”

Sherlock just breathed for a minute, terrified by the easy camaraderie John exuded. He felt sure that the slightest misstep now would shatter it forever. But before he could gather himself enough to think of a suitable response, John’s hand smoothed up his side, lightly, catching on the wrinkles in his worn sleep shirt, and came to rest on Sherlock’s bicep.

“We don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want. I know you don’t… do feelings, generally. Neither do I, really, but I just—” He broke off, sighed.

“I _do_ have feelings, John,” Sherlock said thickly, aiming for aloof and not quick making the mark. The hand on his arm squeezed gently.

“I know. I know you better than that, I think. _Talking_ about them, on the other hand…”

Sherlock licked his lips. His heart was racing and adrenaline was flooding his system, putting him dizzily at the edge of everything. Yet somehow he didn’t feel like he was stepping off a cliff when he said, “There’s a lot that we—that I have failed to, to say, or to make clear these past few years. We’ve just been pretending things are back to the way they were. Before.” He took a quick breath for courage. “But we both know that’s impossible.”

John shuffled closer under the covers, a sweet little nudge that put his chest to Sherlock’s back and his chilly toes to Sherlock’s calves. “I hope this is going somewhere good, Sherlock.”

Shakily, Sherlock whispered, “I rather think that depends on you.”

Up ’til then the entire conversation had taken place without them looking at one another. But now John’s touch firmed and he coaxed Sherlock gently onto his back. He braced himself on one elbow and smiled faintly, touching the sharp curve of Sherlock's cheek as if it were made of bone china. “You tell me, Sherlock. Look at me, and tell me what you see.”

Taken aback by the unprecedented request, Sherlock obeyed.

Sometimes all Sherlock had to do was be in the general vicinity of someone, and a generous handful of traits sprang up as he took in data without making a conscious effort. But now, looking at John, he realized that for the past several months he’d been unknowingly shielding himself from reading his friend. Ever since he’d stepped off a plane and into the knife-thin balance between death and chaos, he had shut down around John. He’d had to, to preserve himself, to keep his heart protected. Even when AGRA had been eliminated and the last vestiges of Moriarty’s empire dissolved, Sherlock had not dared to expose himself again. And so, too afraid to see the truth in John’s expressions, he’d avoided deducing his friend at all beyond the tiny, everyday minutiae that arose from living in close proximity.

Now, finally, Sherlock saw that the tiny lines around his eyes that had manifested sometime during his marriage were smoothed, saw the aching emptiness that shuttered his expressions had faded. The heavy burden of his lying wife, his nonexistent child, his two-year mourning period—all of that was but a shadow of memory in the way he pursed his mouth, the way his brow quirked so patiently. And Sherlock knew, or hoped, that one day even that shadow would be gone.

More importantly, he saw the teasing curl of a lip and the fond dimple marking one cheek. He saw the affection, the patience, the camaraderie. And he saw quite plainly, for the first time, the adoration.

Sherlock swallowed. “How long has it been?”

“How long…?”

“How long have we been running away from each other?”

The touch of humor dissolved, and _oh_ , that was where the pain was coming from: not Mary’s lies and abandonment, but his own self-disparagement. “Too long. Stupidly long.” John smiled, but it cracked, and when Sherlock pulled him down he nestled willingly against Sherlock’s slender body. “Maybe since the very beginning.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, breathed him in. “Not anymore.”

They laid like this a little while longer, John’s leg hooked between Sherlock’s, his arms wrapped around Sherlock’s torso. It was incredibly calming. Gradually their breathing synchronized, and Sherlock concentrated only on that: the rise and fall of their ribcages so perfectly timed they might have been fused together. But soon he became conscious of something pressing into his hip, something that was not John’s hands or knees—he shifted, and flushed hard when he realized what it was.

“Sorry,” John whispered, torn between laughter and embarrassment. “Sorry, just ignore it. This is fine, honestly.”

“It’s flattering,” Sherlock murmured back. There was a thrill of delight in his chest, and he bit his lip to keep from bursting into laughter. “Twice in less than six hours? An impressive refractory period for—”

“If you even _hint_ at calling me an old man, I will leave right now and go have a wank in the shower.”

“You wouldn’t,” Sherlock scoffed. He tightened his arms around him anyway, just in case. In answer, John wriggled closer, and now his prick was a hot, obvious bulge burning like a brand into Sherlock’s thigh. Paradoxically, he shivered, feeling an answering stirring in his pants. “John?”

“Mmm?”

“I love you.”

John caught his breath. Pressed against each other as they were, Sherlock felt every muscle in him seize and then slowly, evenly unwind. “I love you too, Sherlock.” His snub nose rubbed affectionately in Sherlock’s hair. “I love you, I love you.”

A breathless groan wheedled its was out of Sherlock’s chest, and he had to turn into John’s hold, had to somehow get himself closer. His knee bent, wrapping around John’s leg, and he pressed happily into John’s groin. “Please,” he sighed. “Please, this time I want to look at you.”

John’s eyes crinkled. “Then look at me.” He touched Sherlock’s face, combed through his tousled hair. “Look as much as you like.”

He kissed Sherlock then, mouth hungry but holding back. Sherlock took him at his word and kept his eyes open, drinking in this up-close vision of lashes and wrinkles and pores, inhaling skin and sleep and scratchy hotel bedclothes as if they were his last breaths. John’s free hand explored him in the meantime, slipping under Sherlock’s wrung-out collar to stroke his collarbone and find the hard point of a nipple. Sherlock’s answering moan reverberated through their skulls.

John took the impetus and licked into Sherlock’s mouth slowly. He tasted slightly sour, teeth unbrushed, but Sherlock licked back clumsily and sighed in bliss when John sucked on his tongue. His hands, kept still as he focused on John’s perfect mouth, finally shook loose and worked their way down John’s back until they could seize his perfect, compact arse.

“Mmf!” John released Sherlock’s tongue and ground his hips down. “God, Sherlock, your hands.”

Sherlock groaned deep in his throat and squeezed, gasped as John bucked into him again, and a third time. With eyes wide open to match his gaping mouth, he carefully rocked up in answer, picking out a hesitant tempo with his body. The languorous rub of chests and bellies and cocks was intoxicating. He closed his eyes.

“Sherlock?” John murmured, dipping to suck briefly at his lower lip. “Alright?”

Sherlock, to his embarrassment, gave a strangled whimper in response. “Didn’t know it could feel like this,” he gritted out. “Just—in our clothes, and under the covers…”

“Nothing wrong with a little missionary now and then.” John bent and grinned against Sherlock’s neck; and then the grin became a kiss became a long, hard suck and Sherlock couldn’t stop making _noises_.

“Fuck, John!” and it should have been a shout but his throat had tightened and all that came out was a whisper.

With a rude slurping noise, John detached from Sherlock’s neck. He gazed at the spot in primal satisfaction. “Your neck has been begging me to mark it for bloody ages.” His thumb found the spot in question, and Sherlock squirmed at the heady rush of blood to the surface of the skin.

“D’you want more? Need more?” John asked. The bed was creaking slightly with every push-pull, and Sherlock could feel his spine sizzling with every rub of John’s cock on his. “Did you want to undress?”

“Nngh. John.” He couldn’t draw a full breath, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to. “Your shirt. Off. _Please_.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure how John managed to be so coordinated. Pushing himself upright, John settled on his knees between Sherlock’s thighs, and the quick, frantic rut turned into a dirty grind as he undulated slowly in Sherlock’s lap. He grinned wickedly, looking positively filthy in the half-light, and drew his shirt up and off in a slow striptease. Sherlock’s mouth dropped open again and he felt a surge of wetness dampening the front of his pajamas.

John’s eyes dropped to his crotch. “Liked that, did you?”

Sherlock smothered a whine with one hand, feeling hot from the roots of his hair down to his chest. John reached out, pushing up the hem of Sherlock’s shirt, and rubbed his flushed pectorals with both hands. His fingers found Sherlock’s nipples unerringly, rubbed and pulled and lightly pinched the little nubs until Sherlock was whimpering and biting his thumb to keep quiet. John brought one hand up to lick the thumb, and when he returned it to circle one nipple, Sherlock felt his groin clench tight in warning.

“John!” he croaked, remembering belatedly to let go of his own thumb. “John, I think I’m going to come.”

“Yeah, god, do it.” John licked his other thumb and now he had Sherlock’s nipples between thumb and forefinger, twisting gently and slickly until the pleasure was so sharp he couldn’t think. He shoved up against John’s weight, watching John’s hands on him, watching where their groins met, pricks outlined heavily against pants and pajamas. He held his breath and stared: John’s heavy erection, straining in its thin covering, pushed and rolled against Sherlock so that his pajamas rubbed against his own cock. He could see the dark wet spot at the tip. He could almost feel the pulse of blood in John’s groin, the heavy drag of his balls as John’s twisty hips dragged back and forth implacably.

“John…”

“Shh, you’re okay. God, yeah, you feel so good Sherlock.” John tipped his head back, exposing the long line of his throat—but his eyes were still open just a little, lids heavy, watching Sherlock’s face, and that was what pushed him over. Groaning, Sherlock seized the sheets in both hands and convulsed, every muscle straining so that his body bowed in a gentle upward curve. John stilled, breathing hard.

Finally, when every shiver had been wrung out of him, Sherlock collapsed back on the pillows and gasped for air. His pajamas were sticky, clinging to the shape of his prick as it slowly tipped back down toward his belly.

“Mmh. Sherlock. _Fuck_.” John’s head fell forward, and Sherlock batted his hand out of the way as it reached for John’s pants. He pushed the elastic down under John’s balls—full and drawn up tight to his body—and took his fat prick in hand himself. It was thicker than his own and longer than he expected, proportional to a frame larger than John’s; he felt an unexpected urge to have it in him, in his mouth and arse and between his thighs.

But there wasn’t time. John was already on the edge. Then he was there: his face screwed up, his hand pressed against his mouth, and he whined softly as his cock thickened and spat out ropes of semen onto Sherlock’s much-rumpled sleep shirt. The last few pulses yielded only small drips, but wracked John’s body fiercest, leaving him shaky and breathless in the aftermath.

It was hardly over before John was pitching forward, and Sherlock took him in his arms gladly. Together they lay quietly, letting their bodies return to normal speed. When Sherlock could think properly again, he craned up to kiss the top of John’s head and gave a long, low groan of satisfaction.

John stirred in his arms. “Better than the first time?”

“Mmm. Yes, but only because I get to do this.” And Sherlock tipped John’s chin up for a kiss. It was an awkward angle, and their lips met sloppily, spreading far more saliva than was necessary. Sherlock found he didn’t really mind.

“I’m sorry I didn’t kiss you last night,” John whispered against his mouth. “I should have.”

“It’s alright.” Sherlock let his head flop back, and hummed when John kissed the hollow of his throat. So exposed, yet Sherlock couldn’t remember a time when he had been more relaxed than this. Not without the help of cocaine.

John mouthed sleepily at his skin a little more, then rolled his weight off and let out an explosive sigh. “God.”

“What?”

“Just… all that weight. Three, four bloody years of it. Gone.” John’s hands twirled fancifully in the air and then dropped, one on his own belly, one on Sherlock’s thigh. Soiled and smeared with come as he was—again!—Sherlock shuffled closer. “We’ll probably tear each other’s throats out often enough for the rest of our lives, but I don’t care. I’d happily bicker with you every day if it meant spending my life with you.”

“As long as you’re prepared for the worst, I suppose I can’t dissuade you,” Sherlock joked.

“Oh, Sherlock.” John sighed, and rolled to look at him. “I’ve already been through the worst, love. I fully expect to experience only the best from here on out.” He squeezed Sherlock’s lean thigh, encountered a bit of damp fabric near his crotch, and grimaced. With considerably more energy than Sherlock could muster, he tugged Sherlock’s pajamas off and wiped his sticky groin dry as best as he could. Then came the cum-soaked shirt, and all of it thrown in a bundle to the floor. He stretched out against Sherlock’s naked body and kissed his mouth softly. “Does that sound good to you?”

Sherlock’s eyes prickled for some reason he couldn’t explain, so he turned his head into John’s chest and nodded. “It sounds perfect.”


End file.
